


Angel and Scorpion

by jashinist_feminist



Category: Naruto
Genre: 1940s, AU, Akatsuki - Freeform, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Amputation, Assasination, Bombing, F/M, Grief, Loneliness, Medical Trauma, Out of Character, Prosthetics, Romance, Slow Burn, Spying, World War II, air raids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-08-28 15:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jashinist_feminist/pseuds/jashinist_feminist
Summary: She's a former assassin leading the codebreaking team. He's a former spy retired from frontline duty after an injury. Sparks fly when he's assigned to her team.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my 1940s sasokona! I've worked really hard on this since August and I am so excited to share it with everybody. It is my dream au to write a fic where Sasori and Konan go on classy dates and fall for one another's intellect. Ahh...
> 
> Anyway, that will do! I also feel the need to explain that (for the purposes of this story) I have invented a codebreaking department that exists in London. Most codebreaking and intelligence work was done at Bletchley Park, but my research found that it was quite gender-segregated and I wouldn't be able to have Sasori and Konan socialising in the manner that they do here. Plus I wanted them to deal with more domestic issues, which you'll see at the end of the chapter.
> 
> I will also be slowing introducing the rest of the Akatsuki and what role they play in WWII as the story goes on!
> 
> And as always.....a very special thank you to my girls Kitty and Shadow for their amazing feedback and support in creating this story. I love you both! <3

“Angel, meet Scorpion.”                                                   

Konan stared down at the man who sat before her.

Even as they were both seated, Konan could tell that he was shorter than her by at least five centimetres, and according to the files laid before her, the same age as she was, give or take a year or so. Konan studied the man’s large grey-brown doe-eyes, framed with defined lashes, his round cheeks and messy red hair.

If it _weren’t_ for the reassurance of her files regarding his age, Konan was certain he could have passed for many years younger. Beneath her thorough scrutiny, he stared back at her with a bored, half-lidded expression, and so Konan thrust out her hand across the old gnarled table. “A pleasure to meet you, Scorpion. Thank you for your prompt arrival.”

He accepted her hand, and shook it stiffly. “Likewise, Angel. I hate to leave others’ waiting.”

Konan released his hand, and then settled back in her seat, giving a quick glance back at his files, double-checking his age. It certainly stated that he was her age, and not any younger. There was no doubt about it. Konan bit back her attempt to nibble her lower lip in concentration, and kept her expression as neutral and bland as possible.

He watched her as she did so, his eyes scanning her movements.

 _A true spy,_ Konan thought to herself, as she lifted her amber eyes from his file to return his stare.

“What brings you to my team?” asked Konan. She folded one hand over the over on top of the gnarled wooden table. Beneath the table, she crossed her legs, one of her heeled shoes tapping in mid-air, as she waited for his response.

“You need codebreakers,” replied Scorpion.

“I have codebreakers,” stated Konan, thinking of the team of women outside working for her.

“You need more. You need me,” insisted Scorpion.

Konan tilted her head. “And what can you do that my team can’t?”

“I’m an expert with machinery,” replied Scorpion. “To me, it is like art.”

Konan quirked an eyebrow upright. “Art, you say?”

“That is correct.”

“Angel, I have already assigned Scorpion to your team,” interrupted Nagato, from where he perched in his chair behind Scorpion. “The questions aren’t necessary.”

“My team all had to endure an interview before they were permitted to join,” replied Konan. She turned back to look at Scorpion. “And I think it is appropriate to know one’s own team members, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” said Scorpion. “The art of spying is the art of knowing people.”

Konan gazed at him. “How well do you intend to know me?”

Scorpion folded his hands on the opposite side of her, mimicking her movements. “Well enough.”

“That’ll do,” interrupted Nagato. He readjusted the blanket that he had tucked over his legs while he perched in his chair. “Angel, I’ll leave Scorpion in your capable hands. Introduce him to the team, and then set him to work with the machines. I know you prefer working with the handwriting tasks.”

Konan rose from her seat, and Scorpion copied. She watched as he held open the door for Nagato to exit, and the corner of her upper lip stretched upwards in a half-smile. Nagato wheeled himself out, heading back to the floor of the department he worked in, leaving Konan alone with Scorpion.

“Come. I’ll introduce you to the team,” instructed Konan. She led the way to the office that she commandeered, and then stopped before a series of desks. Various women bent over tapes, papers, typewriters, transcribers, and various other equipment. The room was surrounded by an army of steel cabinets, looming in and staring at everyone imposingly. A radio blared various news reports, describing the events of the previous nights’ bombings, and occasionally playing the odd Vera Lynn tune.

She watched Scorpion glance around at the team of women, and waited for him to say something. But his lips remained tightly closed, and his expression remained bored.

“Ladies,” announced Konan, commandeering their attention. “This is Scorpion. He’s a former spy for the Allied troops, and he’s come to join us. I’ll be supervising him.”

The ladies glanced up from their work, and nodded politely to Scorpion, before resuming their work. Rows of bobbed pin curls bent over their desks, side by side. Quiet murmurs once again filled the room with discussion of the papers before them. Konan expected nothing less of them. More social niceties could be carried out during their lunch hour or on a tea break.

“Most of the intel for codebreaking is sent to Bletchley Park,” explained Konan, as Scorpion glanced around. “That’s because they need to be in a secure location for the secret work they are doing and to keep their machinery safe from the air raids. But here, we are on the ground. London is the location of the majority of the bombings, and when our anti-aircraft brings down planes, they are full of pilots who are full of information, and the planes themselves are potentially full of notes, intel, and many other secrets. It is brought directly to us within hours of being shot down, and we translate, transcribe, and then we report it.”

“And what do the reports say?” asked Scorpion.

“That the content is mainly personal to the pilots and any captives,” replied Konan.

“Then maybe it is pointless,” said Scorpion.

There was a taunting, ringing tone to his voice, but Konan could already tell that Scorpion didn’t mean his words. She glanced down, and met his eyes.

“Pointless to the untrained eye, perhaps,” said Konan, picking up a letter from her desk, and letting her eyes flitter over it. “Personal letters can be very interesting, if you look carefully enough. They can give us an idea to the conditions in Germany and occupied France. They can tell us the general consensus amongst the people about their feelings of the regime. And if there are any…weaknesses.”

Konan glanced back up over the letter and watched him. She noticed that Scorpion’s expression remained blank and unreadable.

“Very well,” he simply stated. “What would you like me to do?”

“Some of our transcribers have broken, and we can’t afford to replace them. You said you were an expert with machinery. Would you mind repairing them?” asked Konan, waving her hand at a spare table laid high with equipment. She watched Scorpion frown intently, and half-expected him to dismiss the meagre task.

“With pleasure,” replied Scorpion. He lifted up the briefcase he had carried with him, and unclipped the fastenings. Konan peered inside at a variety of tools and instruments, some of which she had never seen before.

There was very little likelihood that Scorpion could have known what she would ask him today, and so Konan quickly deduced that he must be in the habit of carrying such tools. Konan wondered if his former occupation before the war or even if now his hobbies included toymaking and clockwork, and if the affection for it compelled him to carry such tools.

He held one out, and studied it intently. Konan also studied it, acknowledging that she had certainly not seen such a particular tool before. Without a doubt, Scorpion had likely made and customised them to suit his own purposes. The designs looked intricate and detailed on each tool, as he held up a second tool and inspected that.

Clearly, Scorpion was dedicated to his craft.

Konan sat at her own desk, and then began to study the written effects of a German pilot shot down over London the previous evening. The papers found in his aircraft were brought to her, and Konan needed to study the handwriting and the sentence structure to identify the author.

For almost an hour, she sat scrutinising the handwriting. It sloped to the right, with long emphasis on the height of lowercase letters such as ‘h’ or ‘l,’ and neatly joined each word. It seemed vaguely familiar, although the sentence structure was definitely not.

As she studied, she felt a presence behind her.

Konan lifted one eye away from the letter to meet Scorpion’s.

“What are you doing?” asked Scorpion.

“Analysing this handwriting,” replied Konan. “A German plane was shot down in an air raid last night. They’ve brought me this letter to analyse, to see if I can identify the author.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’m looking at their handwriting. You see how it slopes to the right, the long emphasis on the height of lowercase letters, like this ‘h’ here? It looks familiar, like a sample of handwriting I’ve seen before. But the sentence structure, the way they phrase their words, is unfamiliar. This is either a different author with similar handwriting, or the same author, who had deliberately changed the way they phrase their words, but hasn’t bothered to conceal their handwriting.”

“So what do you do now?”

“I write a report on my findings and alert higher supervisors,” Konan glanced up from her work at Scorpion. “My thoughts on the sentence structure could be an unnecessary concern, considering that words and meanings can be lost in translation.”

“You know German,” stated Scorpion.

“I know French as well. I know a few languages,” Konan tilted her head. “What about yourself, Scorpion?”

“I too know a few languages,” admitted Scorpion.

“Pray tell?”

“I learnt Latin, like most schoolboys,” said Scorpion.

“And?”

“I know French…” trailed off Scorpion. “And German.”

“A perfect match.”

Scorpion leant forward. “If we wanted, we could have our own private little discussion right here and no one here would ever know.”

Konan smiled indulgently, and leant further forward herself. “Except they would. Most of my team members here are multilingual, especially in French and German. I only hire the best.”

“And I am the best?”

“Time will tell,” Konan tapped her pen on her desk. “How are those transcribers?”

“Fully functional and ready to use.”

“That’s impossible. It would have taken an ordinary man almost a day to complete.”

“I am no ordinary man. I’m a genius.”

Konan scoffed. “All men think they are geniuses.”

“But not all of them can prove it.”

Konan turned, and stared at the newly repaired transcribers.

“Try it,” offered Scorpion.

Konan reached for the transcriber, and then began to type in German. Everything ran smoothly and impressively, and was once again fully functional.

“It works,” admitted Konan.

“As I told you,” Scorpion smirked. “I’m a genius.”

“Maybe so. But now I have every intention of putting you to hard work. I hope you aren’t a slacker.”

“Not in the slightest,” replied Scorpion. He raised his hands, and his half-lidded eyes widened a little. “Put me to the best use.”

Konan pulled out a series of machinery from within various cabinets around the room, and pointed to each item, issuing a command. If he was as intelligent as he claimed to be, Konan was determined to make him work for it. To his credit, Scorpion took each item, and followed her instructions will no complaint. When she returned to her work, and glanced up over her reports and papers, he seemed engrossed in his task. There was a shimmer in his eyes, a shimmer that wasn’t quite yet a shine, but that offered the promise of enjoyment.

Briefly, Konan wondered what might have happened to him to dull his senses and enjoyment of things, but then turned back to her own work. After all, there were more important things to worry about.

At the end of the day, Konan bade goodbye to the girls in the office, and then turned back to Scorpion.

“I hope you will continue to work with us, Scorpion.”

Her words were genuine. It was a relief that their machinery would be fully functional again, and that there would be someone who was highly competent helping them complete their tasks.

“I had hoped you would have me back, Angel.”

“I would,” admitted Konan. “There is plenty for you to do.”

Scorpion licked his lips. “Excellent.”

Konan wrapped her trench coat around herself, tucked her scarf around her neck, and then lifted her bag onto her shoulder. “Have a pleasant evening, Scorpion.”

“Likewise, Angel. Stay safe.”

Konan made her way out into the darkening street. She glanced up, and knew that it would be blackout by the time she arrived home. She turned in the direction of the underground to catch the tube back to the slightly more suburban part of London where she lived. Already outside, hoards of people queued to pass the night in the safety of the underground. Konan slipped past them, heading towards the platform for her tube line.

The train rushed into the station, lifting her coat and the hem of her button-down dress in the breeze. Konan stepped onto the train, and as it was already full with citizens escaping home before the blackout, was forced to stand in the centre of the strand clutching onto a metal pole. The train surged quickly out of the station, leaving Konan to sway along with the movement.

At the other end, Konan climbed out, noticing that the streetlights were out, the blackout curtains drawn in the houses, and very few people remaining on the streets. She hurried along to be inside before the air raid siren played, hoping to at least be able to make herself a drink and a hot meal before huddling inside her Anderson shelter for the night.

Her heeled shoes clacked on the pavement. Konan glanced back up at the sky, expecting to see the beams of lights searching for Luftwaffe anytime soon. She turned the corner, and found herself on her street. Breaking into a power walk with a sprint in her step, she hurried to her front door, and slipped inside her terraced house.

Konan immediately snapped shut the blackout curtains, before daring to switch on a light. Once she could see around herself again, she laid down her handbag on the armchair, and slipped off her coat, hanging it upon her coat stand.

Konan moved through the rest of the house, closing curtains and then switching on lights as required. Upstairs in her bedroom, she kicked off her heeled shoes and laid them beside the wardrobe, slipped on some slippers, hung out a work dress for the next morning, and then returned to the kitchen, where she heated leftovers in the oven from last night’s dinner.

She slipped out into the garden, and tossed several handfuls of chicken feed into the pen that kept her chickens, and listened to them cluck with appreciation. After checking them over to ensure they were healthy, she slipped back inside to the warmth, and pulled out her dinner from the oven.

Konan had barely settled at the dining table and taken a single bite of her dinner, when the phone rang. She covered her plate with a kitchen cloth, and made her way back into the living room where the phone sat on a coffee table. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said Nagato.

“Oh, hello Nagato,” Konan sighed, reclining back into a nearby armchair, and propping her feet up on a footrest. “How are you doing?”

“I’m well,” said Nagato. There was a tone in his voice that suggested his health was not a topic he wished to discuss right now, and so Konan left it at that, and allowed him to continue talking. “How did you like Scorpion?”

“He was very useful,” replied Konan. That was the honest answer, after all.

“Useful? So you think you’d like to work with him?”

“I would.”

Their words were quick and brief, knowing very well that time was short and an air attack very likely to be eminent. Konan’s breath hitched, knowing that Nagato in his location and his condition was a likely victim.

“How are you coping?” Nagato asked, this time using a lower voice.

Konan glanced at the empty chair opposite her. “I’m coping.”

“Are you sure? You know, I worry about you in the house on your own. Wouldn’t you rather live in central London, with me?”

“I prefer living here,” replied Konan. “It’s safer. There are fewer air raids in this part. I worry more about you, especially considering your situation. Wouldn’t you rather live with me?”

“No, no, I couldn’t put that on you. I couldn’t make the journey from home to work on my own. I’m better off where I am, and besides, my attendants look after me,” replied Nagato. There was an assuredness in his tone, and Konan knew he could not be persuaded.

“I’m glad,” said Konan.

“I ought to let you go,” said Nagato, and this time Konan heard his breath hitch, the swish of his hair as he presumably swivelled to look at the clock or out of the window. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Konan firmly, knowing very well that she had to believe it.

No sooner had Konan put the phone down and returned to her meal when a piercing wail punctured the air. Konan sighed at the warning of the impending strikes.

The first thing she did was dart up the stairs, and lean under her bed, taking the pistol she kept, before running back downstairs and hastily stuffing it in her handbag with her ration book, her gas mask, identification papers and housekeys. She picked up the plate she had been eating from, her cutlery, and switched off the lights of her house. She locked the back door behind her, tested it, before trooping down the pathway and slipping into the Anderson shelter buried in the pit of her garden.

Inside the Anderson shelter, she lit a few candles, and then sat on the bed. There were plenty of books in here to keep her entertained, newspapers with crosswords, a nightdress, a housecoat, and warm blankets in case she grew cold. Konan finished her dinner, then slipped into the nightdress and her housecoat. She wrapped a blanket over her shoulders for extra warmth, then flicked on the radio.

Konan listened to music on the portable radio for an hour, and hummed along to her favourite tunes, whilst her hands busied herself in folding up the old newspapers into tiny little sculptures. She knew that soon they would have to be sent to be recycled as per the war effort, but there was no harm in creating a few paper roses for now. When she tired of folding, she burrowed her nose in a book. Another hour later, and Konan realised that the siren to announce the end of the air raid would not play before she wanted to sleep.

She crawled under the covers of her bed, tucked the extra blankets over the sheets, and fell asleep. 

* * *

When Konan awoke, the first thing she did was slip her feet back into her shoes, and then open the door of the Anderson shelter. Immediately, she found bright morning sunlight streaming across the horizon that burst through the first crack in the door, breaking the gloom. In the adjacent garden, she noticed her neighbours clamouring out of their Anderson shelter.

“Come on, Tobi, out of the shelter, we can go inside now,” said a firm and brisk, yet kindly, voice.

“But Tobi doesn’t like the bombs!”

“There aren’t any more bombs,” explained the voice. “Come on, inside, it’s time for breakfast.”

Konan peered over the fence as Mikoto Uchiha shepherded Tobi back into the house, followed by her husband, Fugaku, their two sons Itachi and Sasuke, and Izumi, who was a cousin from their family. Izumi’s parents were killed during a bombing, and both Mikoto and Fugaku had taken her in, as she was barely a few months older than their eldest son, and an unmarried young woman. They’d already taken in Obito, another cousin, who had been hit on the head in an accident as a child, and never quite recovered. Sometimes he seemed like normal man of his age, other times he behaved like a child who called himself Tobi, and sometimes he was convinced he was his Great-Uncle Madara. The last family member to disappear inside their home was the dog, Shiro.

Shiro barked excitedly as soon as the family were inside. Konan heard Sasuke throwing a bone for the dog, and the bickering as the family settled into their morning routine.

Konan’s house was exactly as she had left it. There were no calls from the burglars who risked their lives during the air raids and broke into homes to steal the belongings of those huddled in the air raid shelters. She flicked on the radio for some background noise, filled the kettle with water from the tap, then set it to boil over the stove. Upstairs, she stashed her pistol back under the bed along with her knives. In the bathroom, she removed her nightdress, and ran a cold bath of barely five inches, before scrubbing her entire body with soap.

Downstairs, the kettle began to whistle. Konan slipped on a fresh brassiere, girdle, stockings and then buttoned up a dress over a slip, before hurrying back down the stairs to make a pot of tea. She laid a teacloth over her dress to eat breakfast, before returning upstairs to set her hair into pin curls and apply her makeup for the day, perched on a stool before the mirror. As the leader of her team, it was important that she set a good impression.

When that was done, she picked up the packed lunch she had made, slipped yesterday’s heels back on, collected her handbag, and wrapped her trenchcoat around herself, stepping back out into the street.

Konan bought a paper from a street vendor at the end of the next road, before stepped down into the tube station. She waited for her train to rush into the station, and then stepped on, heels clicking against the platform and then the rubbery surface of the train carriage. Within the carriage, commuters exchanged sombre glances as they had survived the night. Then as time ticked by, they began to smile again, and exchange polite small talk.

“It was rather blitz-y last night, don’t you think?” asked one of the passengers.

“Indeed, we remained in the shelter all night, and barely had enough time to finish dinner…”

Konan flicked through her newspaper, scanning the various articles to find out the latest turns of the war, keeping her eyes peeled for any interesting pieces of information. When it reached her stop, she tucked it inside her handbag, and then headed back up the stairs. Outside, there was some smoke blowing into her face, and several fireguards tackling a small blaze back under control.

Commuters walked past, carrying on their way to work, without batting a single eyelid.

Konan joined them, her heels clacking on the cracked pavements. A few motorcars whizzed past the cracked pavements, swerving around the debris scattered across the road. Up ahead of her on the pavement, there was a short man with red hair, leaning on a walking stick as he headed in the same direction as she did. Konan watched closer, and realised that it was Scorpion, the man she had welcomed to her team the previous day.

He was walking at a slower pace than she was and leaning somewhat heavily upon the walking stick. One of his legs moved more stiffly than the other. Konan knew that if she continued to walk at her current pace that she would eventually overtake him.

Unless, of course, she walked beside him.

Konan picked the latter. Her pace led her to a few steps behind him, and then by his side.

“Good morning, Scorpion,” said Konan, clutching at her handbag as she joined him. “I trust your evening was pleasant?”

“As pleasant as a night in a communal air raid shelter can be,” replied Scorpion.

“Ah,” said Konan, immediately guessing his residence. For those without a garden, the only option for shelter during an air raid strike were the communal air raid shelters at the end of every street. Which meant that Scorpion likely lived in inner London, with no access to a garden to build an Anderson shelter, as Konan did. “So you live in the inner city?”

“I do,” admitted Scorpion.

“How do you like it?” asked Konan.

“I loved it until this infernal war began,” replied Scorpion.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Konan.

“My evenings are now unfortunately interrupted by the air raid sirens, and I do worry what might become of my belongings.”

“Have you many?”

“My books. My tools. My _art_ ,” Scorpion lingered on the last word the longest. Konan immediately deduced that was an important topic to him, and stored away the knowledge for later. It almost didn’t surprise her that Scorpion was an artistic type. His dreamy expression and the shade of his red hair that looked as though it had been picked from the warm tones of a romance painting almost gave it away.

Thinking of art made Konan wish she could go and visit a gallery soon, but she knew it was unlikely with the war going on.

“I understand the feeling,” replied Konan, deciding to offer a minor tid-bit of information about herself to put him back at ease. “I often fear for the fate of mine.”

“You do?” asked Scorpion, his eyebrows raising as he turned to look at her.

“Indeed,” said Konan. “My photographs, my papers, and my books too.”

They stopped in front of the building.

“Well, here we are,” said Konan. She pulled her ID from her handbag, and noticed that Scorpion pulled his out from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. They both flashed their ID at the security guard, and then Konan noticed that Scorpion headed towards the elevator.

It pinged open, to reveal Nagato sitting in his chair.

“Nagato,” greeted Konan. She bent down and gave him a kiss upon the cheeks, that he reached up and reciprocated. “You are well?”

“Of course I’m well,” Nagato patted her hand reassuringly. “Are you?”

“Always,” replied Konan. Scorpion pressed the button for their floor, whilst Nagato pressed the button for his. It relieved her to see Nagato at work, and well. She always feared that he would be caught in an air strike, unable to reach the safety of a shelter in time, or that the orange-haired siblings who cared for him would leave him in a panic.

“How are you, Scorpion?” asked Nagato. “Are you settling in well with the team?”

“Very well, thank you. Angel here has had me repair the transcribers.”

“Of course she has,” Nagato smiled fondly. “You will not be bored here, I can assure you.”

“It’s not the same as spying, I’ll admit that,” said Scorpion. He turned to look back up at Konan, who met his eyes without a flinch. “But I’m sure I shall be well entertained indeed.”

The elevator pinged at Nagato’s floor.

“Well, I had best be off,” said Nagato, reaching down for the wheels of his chair. He pushed himself out of the elevator. “Don’t work too hard!”

The doors closed, leaving Konan and Scorpion alone in the elevator once again. As they stood side by side, Konan realised that with her heels, she towered above him.

“I take it you know Mr. Uzumaki well,” said Scorpion.

“We go way back,” admitted Konan, knowing very well that there was no point in omitting that part of her life. Hers and Nagato’s sibling affection was on full display to whomever encountered them.

“How far?” asked Scorpion.

“Early childhood,” replied Konan, deciding to leave it at that. She turned back to look at Sasori. “Have you any friends from that time?”

Scorpion’s lip curled. “None from that time, I’m afraid.”

“How did you come to meet Nagato?” asked Konan.

“He recruited me for your team,” said Scorpion, his thumb running along the handle of his walking stick. Konan noticed that it was carved to look like a scorpion. “He said we’d get on rather well.”

“Indeed,” said Konan. “We shall see how that pans out.”

The elevator pinged, and Konan stepped out first.

“Good morning ladies,” she announced to the office. They murmured their good mornings. The scent of brewing tea filled the air, and Konan made her way to her desk at the front of the room. Scorpion headed to the remaining desk that she had assigned him, that was a few feet away from hers.

He perched at his desk, and then peeped at the in-tray to the right of the desk. Konan watched him curiously, to see how he would react to the day’s tasks.

“Angel,” called an urgent male voice.

Konan climbed up immediately, and then followed through to the meeting room to be briefed on the nights events.

Several minutes later, Konan re-emerged, clutching at several sheets of paper.

“Listen up, team,” she announced. “We brought down some fighter jets last night, and they’ve brought us their assets. I want them translated into English by midday. I need the handwriting analysed.”

Throughout the morning she poured over papers, delegated tasks to team members, translated sentences, offered advice to struggling team members, before finally presenting a fully transcribed series of assets to one of her superiors. Konan glanced up from her work to notice Sasori gazing over his towards her. Her eyes met his, and she forced him to look away, and glance back down at what he was doing.

At lunch, Konan ate outside, swinging her legs back and forth on a park bench.

Around her, the fires had been put out, and already women were sweeping away the rubble, piling it into trucks to be taken and reused for rebuilding elsewhere. People walked down the road as if it were merely an everyday occurrence, and it was. Babies in strollers chirruped and cooed, as their mothers stepped neatly over fallen rubble, lifting the wheels of the strollers up and over any large lumps of rock, and then continuing on their way.

Konan glanced away from the babies, and instead let her eyes focus on the young women who cleared the rubble aside. Many of them had tied their hair back in wraps, and wore men’s clothing tailored down to fit them as they partook in their task.

Gentlemen strolled past in hats, clutching at walking sticks. Almost every person who walked past carried a gas mask slung over their shoulder. Konan’s was tucked inside her handbag, although she had not yet cause to use it.

The sunlight gleamed from the concrete buildings that still stood standing defiantly. Konan tilted her face up to feel the warmth of the sun’s rays upon her face.

Motorcars whizzed past, their engines spluttering, as they swerved around the remaining rubble and emergency buildings. Konan tapped her foot against the side of the bench, her heels creating a pleasing clack. As the hour drew to a close, she picked up her belongings, and headed back inside the building. No sooner was she seated at her desk, before she was called aside again.

“We’ve had more incidents of goods being sold on the black market.”

Konan knew exactly who it was before they could debrief her further. She opened the door, and beckoned to Scorpion.

“Scorpion, with me,” she instructed.

Scorpion climbed upright, leaning on the stick. Konan took the opportunity to take a further look at the scorpion carved onto the head of the walking stick, realising that she had never seen anything like it. Perhaps Scorpion had carved it himself, as an affectation for his codename and his work. She held open the door for him, and then they began to walk down the hallway together. Konan nearly set her usual brisk pace, but then recalled his use of the walking stick. She slowed her pace, and they walked leisurely together.

“Yesterday, I told you that we worked breaking enemy codes,” she began, as a way of explanation. “But not always. Most of the time, the Luftwaffe aren’t careless, and don’t bring such personal effects in their planes with them. And so, we also deal with domestic intelligence issues. People who do things detrimental to the war effort. And today, we’ve managed to bring in someone who’s been selling on the Black Market. A recurrent offender, I’m afraid.”

Konan knocked on the door to the room where the culprit sat.

“Good afternoon, Kakuzu,” greeted Konan, as she lead Sasori into the room. “How nice to see you…again.”

Kakuzu glared at her with bloodshot green eyes.

“How many times have you been caught now?” asked Konan, placing her hands on her hips.

“This is the third time this month,” grunted Kakuzu, with an American twang in his accent.

“You know it is illegal to smuggle goods from the United States into the country and sell them for extortionate prices?” said Konan.

“Yes,” admitted Kakuzu.

“Then please may I have two tubs of condensed milk, some stockings, some batteries for my portable radio, a can of petrol for my motorcar, and four bars of chocolate for the children next door, at a discount of…shall we say twenty percent so that I don’t report you further?”

“Consider it done,” said Kakuzu, picking up his hat and standing upright. He towered above her, a thick solid mass of muscles, yet Konan was unintimidated. Instead, she smiled at him, and then stood up on her heels to kiss each of his scarred cheeks.

“Stay safe now, Kakuzu,” instructed Konan, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. “Captain Hoshigaki reports that the crossing of the Atlantic is getting evermore dangerous with the German u-boats.”

“I’ll take the risk for the money,” growled Kakuzu, tucking his hat back on over his dark hair.

“I know you will,” replied Konan. “But I’d miss you…and your help.”

Kakuzu grunted, before exiting the room. Even as she’d bade Kakuzu farewell, Konan knew that Scorpion had listened intently. An eagerness had lit up over his features, almost as if he had sensed a potential new opportunity.

“Nothing too serious to worry about,” Konan explained, glancing back down at Scorpion. “He’s a useful man, Kakuzu.”

“Indeed,” mused Scorpion, watching the door that Kakuzu had exited from slam shut behind him.

“If there is anything you need, then I’m sure if you ask he’ll arrange it for you,” explained Konan.

Sasori glanced up at her, a wry smile gracing his lips. “I’ll be certain to do so.”

Konan led Scorpion back to their room, and watched as he settled back down at his desk, thoughtfully tweaking at a piece of machinery with an intense, focused look in his eyes. Konan herself settled down to work on the next round of letters. She had almost lost herself in the words, when she glanced up and noticed that Scorpion was glancing back at her with those languid grey-brown eyes.

She nodded to him, and then returned to her work.


	2. Working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasori begins his work within the intelligence team, and begins to bond with Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe its taken me so long since the first chapter to have this one ready! But I feel like Sasori and Konan would have a touching, slowburn romance, so I'm trying to get the pace right. I hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> As mentioned before, I have invented Konan's London intelligence team and I am mostly winging it up and inventing procedures, just in case anyone is more familiar with the time period than I and notices any inconsistencies. I have done this because if I had based it at Bletchley, Sasori and Konan would have been more segregated due to their gender. I need them to be more interactive in order for them to slowly fall in love.
> 
> Also...I love Kakuzu in this chapter XD

Suffice to say, Sasori realised that he would be quite content with his new job.

It was not the same as spying, that was for certain, but for the time being, it would satisfy his thirst for knowledge and information, and keep his skills and interests in check. It was somewhat stabilising, to have a nine-to-five routine, which meant he could be home within minutes of completing his tasks for the day, and relaxing.

Or as relaxing as living in a warzone could be. Sasori had barely begun preparing his dinner for the evening, before the air raid siren wailed through the air. He groaned, wondering if it was really worth making his way down to the air raid shelter. His home had not been hit yet, and surely it would not be hit tonight.

Self-preservation ran rampant through Sasori’s veins. He grabbed his briefcase which held his tools and his notebooks, and hurried down the stairs, into the street, down the road, and into the air raid shelter. He gave his name and showed his ID papers to the air warden, who jotted it down into a book, locked it inside a red metal box, and then threw the red box outside of the shelter, before slamming the door shut.

Small children snivelled, and Sasori heard the soothing murmurs of their mothers. The snivelling continued. They really ought to have been evacuated months ago. Sasori wrinkled his nose distastefully, before heading to the back of the shelter where he could sit in peace. He reached inside his case, and pulled out a spare scrap of wood he’d collected from the roadside from a shattered home. One of his tools began to scrap along the edges, carving a figure. Soon, a small wooden angel snuggled in his palm.

Sasori held her between his thumb and his forefinger, admiring her. He traced his fingers along her outline, admiring the curves his carving knife had created. He smiled to himself, but the smile quickly evaporated as there was a terrifying high-pitched whistle above their heads. The shelter went silent, and death clung in the air like a mist.

An explosion vibrated from several roads away.

Sasori closed his eyes and gripped the handle of the carving tool.

Another explosion vibrated, and the walls shook. Soot petered down on Sasori’s red hair. He shook his head, scattering it in a circle around him.

More explosions, further away this time. Sasori exhaled deeply, and ran his thumb along the angel again. He tucked her in his breast pocket of his waistcoat, and then reached for another piece of wood, this time carving a soldier. Before the war, many children demanded armies of wooden soldiers. It reminded Sasori of the stories he had read as a child, and even one of the ballets that his grandmother had taken him to see, _The Nutcracker_. Sasori could still remember sitting in the stalls, tiny legs dangling as he watched, utterly enchanted.

Comforted, he began to lose himself to his craft, before smiling at the finished soldier. He tucked him inside his breast pocket beside the angel, and then found his eyelids drooping. Sasori tucked away his tools in briefcase and leant his back against the wall.

“You’re wasting wood,” stated one of his neighbours, that he otherwise never spoke to.

“It’s scrap wood,” barked Sasori.

“It could have been reused for the war effort,” she retorted smugly.

Sasori yanked up his trouser leg. “I have given enough to the war effort. They could spare me a little scrap wood to wile away my time in this forsaken hole.”

The neighbour was silenced.

Sasori let his trouser leg fall back down of its own accord, and closed his eyes, entering a light half-sleep.

Another wail pierced through the air. Sasori jolted awake, blinking. His mouth felt dry and his eyes itched. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, or if the sleep he had managed to snatch could be considered sleep, given that he still felt dreadfully tired. Either way, he could either stay where he was or head back home and try to sleep properly in actual bed.

Sasori chose the latter, wanting to be alone. He carried his briefcase back to his house, and then sighed at the stairs. He hauled himself back up the stairs, threw his coat over his chair, and collapsed on his bed, one hand reaching down and unbuckling the straps beneath his trousers.

Dawn arrived too soon, and Sasori’s alarm seemed to screech as soon as he had closed his eyes.

Wearily, he hauled himself back upright, and clicked his head from side to side.

He picked up fresh clothes, pushed away the abandoned dinner he had been forced to leave last night, and began to serve a small breakfast for himself, and pack a lunch.

The angel and soldier perched on his bedside table, and as Sasori moved around the rooms, he felt them watch him out of the corner of his eye. But it was a pleasant sensation, the feeling of no longer being alone. Sasori knew he would eventually have to pack them away in secure storage if he didn’t want them to be potentially damaged in an air raid, but for now, they smiled through the room at him.

After pulling on his waistcoat, he reclined back in his armchair and reached for his leg, tucking the bandages around the stump to prevent the blistering, and slipping it inside the concave of wood. He wrapped the straps around his knee, buckling them on tightly, and then stood up and tested it. He clutched his walking stick in one hand, and made a few paces around the room.

Satisfied, he reached for his shoes, and slid one on his remaining foot, and the other on the end of the wooden leg.

He pulled on his coat, grabbed his briefcase, didn’t bother to brush his hair, and then strode down the road.

Cautiously, he leant on the stick as he laid his weight on his right leg, worrying about the rubble strewn across the street. As he had yesterday, he followed the route of the commuters into the offices, waiting before the lift. He noticed Angel and Mr. Uzumaki entering the building together, with Angel assisting him in wheeling his chair. One of Nagato’s hands reached up, across his body, laying it over hers, almost as if they were holding hands.

Sasori gazed through the gaps of the throngs of people at the interaction, but there seemed nothing more to it. He let the hoard of people sway him into the lift, arriving at the office before Angel herself. He hung his hat from the hat stand, his coat from the peg, before making his way to the desk that Angel had assigned him beside hers. Sasori let his eyes flick across the typewriters, the transcribers, the headsets and radios, feeling his fingers itch and tingle to work on something.

“I see that along with your mechanical skills, you are also punctual,” stated Angel, as she herself entered a few minutes later. She unwrapped her scarf around her neck, and hung it from a hat stand. “Perhaps you will make a positive influence here.”

“I don’t like to wait, nor leave others waiting,” replied Sasori, meeting her eyes.

Angel unpinned her hat from her hair. “How very considerate of you.”

“It’s the least I can offer.”

“I’m sure there’s a little more than that.”

“If you can spot it, please let me know.”

“I’m make certain to do so,” finished Angel. “Tea?”

“If you’re offering.”

“I most certainly am.”

“Then please.”

Angel disappeared into the small kitchenette they had been granted to make drinks and light refreshments. She returned with a tray set for two, and Sasori even noticed that there was a paper flower folded into an ornamental vase.

Sasori gazed at it. “Where did this come from?”

“I made it,” replied Angel.

Sasori’s eyes flickered up. “You like art?”

“Of course.”

Sasori’s heart skipped a beat with happiness. He reached down and lightly fingered the petals with his fingertips. They felt wispy and papery to touch.

“You mustn’t let anyone know that you’re wasting paper like this,” he cautioned, remembering the intrusive comments of his neighbour in the air raid shelter the previous night.

“There is no crime in pinching a little paper to create a little joy,” replied Angel. Sasori silently agreed as she handed him one of the cups. Together they sipped their tea, waiting for the rest of the team to arrive in the brief interlude before the day began. Sasori spared a sideways glance at her, noting the floral print of the button-down dress she wore, the way the single pearl on her silver necklace fell between the folded collar, how the pin curls bounced below her earlobes.

“Do you know if that recurrent offender who trades on the black market will reoffend?” asked Sasori.

“Oh, no doubt about it,” said Angel confidently. “I’m sure the rest of the building will have shopping lists for him.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. I should expect my goods soon. He’s efficient and doesn’t tend to keep people waiting,” said Angel.

“Even better,” stated Sasori.

“Why, did you want to order something?” asked Angel.

Sasori offered her a wry smile. “Did we not agree that there is no crime in pinching a little something to create a little joy?”

Angel smiled back at his comment. Her smile did not yet meet her eyes, which, Sasori had to admit now that he had an excuse to look at them, were quite deadened. But the corners of her lips quirked at the edge, rather like his did whenever he attempted a smile.

The door rattled as the rest of the team arrived.

“To work with you, Scorpion,” instructed Angel, settling down behind her desk, and reaching for her in-tray.

Sasori raised his teacup to her, and then drained it. He turned to his in-tray, and then began to brief himself. A familiar thrill crept up his back as his eyes scanned the classified information. He glanced around the room to spot the reaction of his teammates, but there was none.

Angel stood upright, and then opened one of the cabinets. She grabbed a red folder, and then quickly stashed the paper she had been scanning inside, before sealing it shut and stamping it.

“What are you doing?” asked Sasori.

“This needs to go to Bletchley,” said Angel.

“Can’t you understand it?”

“Oh, I understand it perfectly,” scolded Angel. “And that’s why it needs to be escalated.”

“It’s bad news?”

“Depending which way you look at it,” replied Angel, heading towards the door. Sasori frowned, realising she was carrying the folder with her. The door closed behind her, and Sasori suddenly felt bereft. He looked around at the other women, who continued to type. He turned back to the piece of paper he was supposed to put through the transcribing machine, and began to type it through.

Yet his senses remained on high alert, listening for Angel to return.

An hour ticked past, and there was no sign of her.

Sasori’s teeth dug into his lower lip.

He did not like to wait.

An hour and a half passed, and Angel returned. Her hair looked unravelled, the pin curls loosening, and her expression had sagged.

“Where were you?” asked Sasori, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. He reminded himself that she was a colleague, his superior in the room, and that his frustrations at being made to wait were his personal feelings, not emotions that he should bring to work.

“Impromptu meeting,” replied Angel. “It appears I’ll paying a visit to Bletchley soon, where our teams will exchange briefings.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll probably be tomorrow,” Angel perched at her desk. Her amber eyes met his. “And it will involve me spending the day out of here.”

“I see,” said Sasori.

Angel regarded him carefully. “Would you be all right, with just the ladies for company?”

“I have no interest in any of them, if that’s what you mean.”

“I could ask Nagato if some of the gentlemen upstairs have any work for you-”

“I have no interest in them either.”

“Then I see you are a true professional,” finished Angel.

“A true professional,” Sasori murmured to himself, wondering what on earth she could have meant. He turned back to his tasks, and decided to let it slide.

* * *

As she promised, a day later, Angel did not arrive for work. Sasori carried on with the documents that he had been assigned, and didn’t speak to the rest of the team anymore than necessary, doubting there was anything that he or they had in common, other than their work. Interestingly, whenever a visitor from another department arrived, they seemed to go straight to Sasori, and not one of the women who had been working here for much longer than he had. Ridiculous.

The evening was spent in the communal air raid shelter, with Sasori once again imposed on his neighbours. This time, he brought with him a sketchbook, and began to trace the lines of an old acquaintance, sketching out his puffy hair. As the bombs shook the city, Sasori couldn’t help but tilt his face up to the sky, wondering if Angel had returned to the city, or if she was still safely out in the countryside at Bletchley.

Sasori laid on his side, his back to the others in the shelter. A baby crying kept him from falling into any kind of meaningful sleep, and so he teetered on the edges of drowsing in the darkness.

The morning brought a change of clothes, a trek to work, and then settling at his desk.

There was no sign of Angel.

He asked the women when they arrived where she was, but they had no clue.

Sasori tapped a pencil rapidly against the desk.

He buried his head in tasks, until a knock at the door interrupted him.

Sasori sat up, and then spotted the man who Angel had apprehended a few days previously.

“Kakuzu,” he greeted.

“I’m supposed to report here, since I’ve been caught selling on the Black Market,” Kakuzu grunted. He held out a brown paper bag, and Sasori made out the distinct lines of the items that Angel had ordered. “These are the goods that Angel needs to confiscate.”

“Angel isn’t here,” said Sasori.

“Then where is she?”

“Bletchley,” replied Sasori.

“Is there anywhere I can leave them for her?” asked Kakuzu.

“I wouldn’t be sure, especially if they’re smuggled goods,” said Sasori.

“Usually I receive a reward for my good behaviour,” added Kakuzu.

Sasori narrowed his eyes. “What kind of reward?”

“Financial,” said Kakuzu.

“I don’t have any money for you,” replied Sasori.

“Should I bring these along another day?” asked Kakuzu.

“I think that would be best,” said Sasori. “Angel will be back tomorrow, I believe.”

“I’ll return,” said Kakuzu, turning.

“Wait!” called Sasori. Kakuzu turned back, his bloodshot green eyes scanning him. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been caught selling wood?”

“Wood,” stated Kakuzu.

“That’s right. Wood. And coils, springs, metal screws, that kind of thing,” finished Sasori.

“Wood, coils, springs, metal screws, you say,” said Kakuzu.

“Yes,” said Sasori. “Because if you’ve been selling those, then you need to hand them in to me. Not to Angel. To me.”

“I’ll bring those to you tomorrow,” said Kakuzu. “And I will expect a reward for my good behaviour.”

“As you please,” replied Sasori, turning back to his work, feeling rather pleased with himself.

That night, Sasori began to work on yet another sketch in the air raid shelter. He began the blueprint of his next project, laying down the bones for what would make him complete.

The following morning, Sasori opened the door to the office, and found Angel standing in front of the open window, cigarette in one hand, blowing smoke into the rising sunshine. She had removed her coat, but still wore her hat, pinned jauntily to one side of her head.

“You’re back,” said Sasori.

Angel turned to face him, smoke billowing around. “They kept me waiting.”

“How inconsiderate,” scolded Sasori. “Did you tell them so?”

“I did,” replied Angel, stubbing out her cigarette and flicking the remnants out of the window.

“The place wasn’t the same without you,” admitted Sasori.

Angel allowed him a wry smile. Yet even so, her amber eyes remained deadened. A sense of kinship flooded through Sasori’s veins.

“Tea?” asked Sasori.

“Please,” said Angel.

Sasori headed into the small kitchen, and began to make up a tray for them both. But instead of laying out a paper flower, he instead laid out the small wooden angel he had carved the other night. Carefully, he carried it back into the room, and then offered it to Angel.

“Who’s this?” asked Angel, as she regarded the angel.

“There is no crime in pinching a little wood to create a little joy,” replied Sasori, echoing her words from earlier in the week.

Angel picked up the figurine, and smiled again. “Did you make her?”

“This is my art,” explained Sasori. “She’s just a little wooden figure though…you should see some of my other work. You can pose them.”

“Are they…dolls?” asked Angel, setting the angel back down on the tray, and reached for a cube of sugar to plonk in the teacup instead.

“They’re puppets,” replied Sasori.

“Puppets, you say?” Angel tilted her head, as she poured the tea over the sugar cube.

“Puppets,” confirmed Sasori.

Angel stirred in milk with the tea. “How many do you have?”

Sasori silently debated whether or not to reveal just how many puppets he had, and so he settled for remaining vague and noncommittal.

“A couple,” he replied.

“How long have you been making them for?”

“Since I was a boy,” said Sasori. He felt himself begin to light up from within, and chided himself. Even as they only briefly touched upon his favourite topic of discussion, it still struck joy into his heart. “How long have you been able to make the roses?”

“Since I was a girl,” replied Angel.

“Do you make more?”

“I can make all kinds. Cranes, butterflies, you name it.”

“How about a scorpion?”

“Is this a challenge?”

“Why not?” Angel snatched a piece of paper and began to fold rapidly and with expertise, her fingers flexing back and forth, before presenting him with a scorpion. “You can keep him.”

“Then I suppose you had better keep the angel,” said Sasori, holding her out.

They exchanged pieces of art, and Sasori noticed that in the absence of pockets, Angel tucked her figurine inside the neckline of her dress. They stood sipping tea, as they waited for the rest of their team to arrive. And even when they did, Sasori could not take his eyes away from her, the way she rapidly flicked through each document, filed it, made her reports. How as she flitted through the room, offering words of support and encouragement.

It mystified him, to say the least. Sasori wondered what he must see in her. When she was engrossed in work, he tilted his head sideways to look at her. In the light, she _did_ look like an angel. A sculpted angel, keeping watch over the gravesides in a cemetery.

But the pulse beating at her neck and the way her hands had moved, creating life within the paper, reminded him that she was a mortal woman.

After midday, when they had each taken their lunch hour, Sasori glanced up to see Kakuzu making his way back into the room, carrying two paper bags. He smiled to himself, and fought the urge to hop up and down on the spot with delight, before remembering that hopping probably wasn’t a viable option for him right now.

Or at least, _not yet_.

“The goods I’m surrendering,” said Kakuzu, thrusting out a paper bag at Konan.

“Thank you, Kakuzu,” Angel accepted the bag, and glanced inside.

“It’s all there,” Kakuzu grunted.

“I don’t doubt you,” said Angel.

“My reward for my good behaviour?” asked Kakuzu.

Angel held out several notes of money, that Kakuzu stuffed quickly inside his wallet.

“What’s in the other bag?” asked Angel.

“Confiscated items for Mr. Akasuna,” said Kakuzu.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Angel returned to her desk.

Sasori stood up, and carefully accepted the bag. He peered inside, and his eyes widened. There were coils, springs, screws and sheets of wood.

“Your reward,” Sasori thrust out several notes of money. He almost didn’t care if it was too much, and knew that Kakuzu wasn’t the type to complain. The man greedily grabbed the notes and stashed them away with Angel’s money.

“Don’t get caught again now, Kakuzu,” Angel sang, slipping from behind her desk to wish him goodbye. She reached up and placed a kiss on each of his scarred cheeks, before releasing him. She turned back to Sasori. “What did you ask from him?”

“Some items for a personal project,” said Sasori, and he decided to leave it at that.

For as lovely as Angel was, there was no need to share this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww, aren't they adorable? I think they are my new OTP!
> 
> Any ideas for what Sasori is planning?


	3. Exploring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Konan allows Scorpion to accompany her to a debriefing outside of London. They grow closer on the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad..here's another fic i've neglected! Especially as its one that I love :O but i'm back now, with my dream otp in my dream au. Ahhhh...
> 
> Again, i've taken lots of artistic liberties and made alterations to what actually happened and how spying/codebreaking actually worked to make this fic work, so I hope you can all bear with me :)

On her return from work, Konan headed straight out to the garden, and shook a bag of chicken feed across their coop. The four hens clucked and pecked at the feed, and Konan watched their little heads bob up and down for a while, thinking to herself how endearing they were.

In the garden beside hers, Mikoto stood, threading clothing onto a washing line. In the afternoon sunlight, the water steamed from the sodden fabric, and gleamed. Mikoto was unusually talented in that her sheets were some of the whitest sheets that hung up in their street. Konan remembered how she had once gushed over the garden wall at her skills, begging Mikoto for her secrets, under the pretence of admiration.

Little did Mikoto know what Konan really needed her washing skills for. Or maybe she did. Either way, Konan became adept at removing bloodstains from her clothing.

The door of the Uchiha’s kitchen blasted open. “Aunty Mikoto, Tobi is so bored!”

“Ask Itachi if he’ll play chess with you,” said Mikoto.

“But Itachi is in bed, and doesn’t want to play with Tobi,” said Tobi sadly.

“Itachi needs to wake up,” frowned Mikoto. “Tobi, be a good boy, and go and wake him up for me.”

“But Itachi is so sad since Shisui hasn’t come home-”

“Tobi!” barked Mikoto.

“Is Shisui ever going to come home, Aunty?”

“Tobi, that’s enough!” said Mikoto firmly. “I’ve explained to you what the letter said. He is _‘Missing In Action.’_ There is still hope that he could return home, but we don’t know when, or if.”

Konan knelt by the chicken hutch, searching through the hay for any eggs, listening attentively to the conversation, before she felt dark eyes bore into the back of her neck.

“Hello Miss. Konan!” beamed Tobi, leaning over the wall. One half of his face was scarred, from his accident, and the other unharmed. His black hair was shorter and spikier than the other members of his family. “Did you have a nice day at work?”

“I did, thank you, Mr. Obito,” replied Konan.

“You can call me Tobi, Miss. Konan! Everybody does!”

“Tobi,” said Konan.

Tobi tilted his head curiously. “Uncle Fugaku says that for work you visit lots of rich men and make them happy-”

Konan raised a thin eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Tobi!” barked Mikoto. “Get inside at once!”

“But Tobi knows that you’re really an assassin,” Tobi smiled haplessly.

Mikoto shoved Tobi back into the house, and Konan heard him yelp. Mikoto turned back to face her. “I am so sorry, he’s so childish and makes up the most wild stories…”

“Poor boy,” said Konan. “I imagine he is quite a handful to care for.”

“Yes. He is that,” said Mikoto.

Konan almost felt sorry for Mikoto, spending her life being delegated the meagre tasks of caring for various family members. But she let their family domestics slide, deciding that it really was none of her business.

Konan busied herself in her own domestic pursuits that evening. This was one of the more pleasant aspects of her life, that whenever she performed domestic labour, it was for her own benefit and at her own pace. Her home was hers, and there was no one to demand that it be held to their standards, whilst they did nothing themselves to contribute to their personal vision.

Konan dusted off her wedding photograph, and placed it back on the fireplace. The blackout curtains were tugged shut, and the candles flickered brightly. She worked her way through her ration book, sorting through her personal finances and the goods that she had bartered from Kakuzu. The chocolates for Itachi, Sasuke and Izumi she laid aside, deciding that she would present them to the three young people another time, preferably when Tobi was not around.

She completed her personal finances for the month, realising that once again, she would have more money to tuck away in her savings when she received her paycheck. Konan smiled, and then folded shut her accounting books.

Yahiko once told her that she would have been a much better Wall Street broker than the reckless idiots who caused the Depression. Konan told him that she would never be compelled to be such a foolish person. She remembered he’d laughed at that, and told her that she could never be foolish.

Konan found herself smiling at the memory, but then her reflection met herself in the mirror across the room. Her reflection’s eyes were still deadened, the smile a shadow of its former potential, her cheekbones barely lifting.

Yahiko was gone. Konan would never be a Wall Street broker.

She stepped away from the mirror, and heading up to the bathroom, filling the sink with tepid warm water. Soap sluiced over her skin, until she was slippery and fishlike. Her fingers worked the suds into her hair, removing the limp pin curls that had fallen out. When she was done, she rinsed herself clean, and patted herself dry, wrapping herself in her silk nightdress and housecoat.

Konan ate dinner with the radio buzzing for company, before heading upstairs. It was a strangely peaceful night, that she should be able to sleep in her own bed. In the earlier days of the war, the raids had been mostly during the day, and she had spent the raids huddled under her desk with the other women.

Yet continuing to work, even as they huddled.

Konan spread across the bed, remembering how it felt when Yahiko would curve himself around her, so they slotted together like two spoons in a draw. Or how she would lay her head upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat steadily thumping. Or how he would lie on his belly, and she rest her head on his shoulder, tracing her fingers across the constellations of freckles on his shoulders, lightly sketching patterns. If she touched him just right, then he would shudder with pleasure at her touch, and then she would spoon around him, burying her face into the back of his neck and nuzzling in to breath his familiar scent.

Instead, Konan fell asleep thinking of the pistol beneath the mattress, and that she ought to visit Nagato soon.

* * *

 “You look well-rested today, Scorpion,” noted Konan, peering over her papers as they worked. “I trust you enjoyed a nice evening in the comfort of your own home?”

“I most certainly did,” said Scorpion.

“When you aren’t in the air raid shelter during the evenings, what do you do for pleasure?” asked Konan.

“I work on my projects,” replied Scorpion, as he fiddled with a transcriber. “In fact, I began a new one last night.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so,” said Scorpion, laying some screws upon the desk in front of him. “What do you do for pleasure?”

“I work on mine,” said Konan, deciding to leave it at that, as she tucked some papers away in one of her various trays.

The evening that followed was not quite so pleasant. Konan found herself rushing straight into the Anderson shelter before she had even removed her coat. Unable to return to her house, she instead had to settle for the bread and cheese that she left in the shelter in case of such an event.

At work, the team seemed somewhat demoralised by their unpleasant night, and matters didn’t help when they were snowed under with assets that the anti-aircraft had shot down. Konan felt herself buried under paperwork, codes swimming before her eyes, details sketched upon every surface, German and English blurring into one language…

“Tea,” Scorpion laid a cup before her, before settling back down at his desk, and resuming his work.

Konan blinked at his small, uncharacteristic kindness.

The night brought more air raids. Konan tuned it out with the radio, buried herself in books, folded old newspapers until she was surrounded by an army of paper roses. And the following day, another heavy load of assets to sift through, interpret, report, and file.

Konan stashed another paper into red file, and stamped it, before exiting the room to escalate it.

Another trip to Bletchley appeared in order, for further briefings between their teams. But this time, Konan would not go alone. The teams at Bletchley had requested assistance in repairing one of their machines, and had requested none other than Scorpion. Scorpion would accompany her to the briefing, and she would drive him there in her car.

It seemed almost strange to be alone with him. Throughout the working day, they talked whilst in the company of the other women, and the moments they snatched together whilst alone were always under the looming intrusion of others.

Konan guided her turquoise blue Morris Riley past the piles of rubble, her eyes focused on the road, lest she collide with a stray brick. Once they reached the suburbs, she allowed her eyes to slide to the left, and watch how his red hair flickered in small breeze blowing through the windows. It was such an exquisite shade of red, much like Nagato’s, but grew in a much more disorderly fashion. She almost wanted to tug it, to watch it bounce and recoil from her touch. Or to run her fingers through it, and watch the hues dapple in the sunlight.

Out of the suburbs, and Konan pressed on the accelerator, before pressing on the clutch and slipping the car into fifth gear. The engine roared and purred, and soon, they flew along the virtually empty road.

“You can play some music if you like,” Konan waved her hand at the radio beside her steering wheel. “We don’t have to sit in silence. What music do you like?”

“I like classical music,” replied Scorpion. “I like to go to concerts. My grandmother used to take me, if I was good and behaved myself.”

“Were you good?”

“I thought I was. I don’t think she always agreed.”

“I see,” said Konan, glancing in the wing mirror at the road behind them. “So, were you a troublemaker?”

“Not particularly. I was rather…” Scorpion trailed off, as if he was searching for the right word. “Peculiar for a child.”

“My foster father said I was always a kind child,” said Konan. “But headstrong.”

“I can see that,” said Scorpion.

Konan let her eyes flick back to him. “You can?”

Scorpion didn’t reply, but instead flicked on the radio, and war commentary filled the air.

“Oh, turn that off if there isn’t going to be any music,” Konan shook her head. “I do like to keep up with news of the war, but sometimes it does get me down. Let’s talk.”

Scorpion flicked it off, and silence resumed in its place, but for the purr of the engine chugging along the road.

“How long have you worked for the intelligence team?” asked Scorpion.

“I began a few months after the outbreak of war,” explained Konan. “I remember because my husband was on the frontlines, and killed barely a few weeks in. I couldn’t carry on with what I did before, and so I asked for a transfer instead. They told me to lead the London intelligence team, and here I am now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Scorpion.

“Thank you,” said Konan.

“If they moved you to desk job intelligence, then were you in the same business as I was before?” asked Scorpion.

“Spying?” asked Konan. “Not quite.”

“Then what was it?”

“Killing,” said Konan bluntly.

Scorpion’s grey-brown eyes widened, and he turned to face her. “You’re not _Angel_?”

“I am she,” said Konan.

“As in, _Angel of the Red Morning_?” emphasised Scorpion. “An entire club, murdered in one night, by you alone?”

“That was me,” said Konan, her eyes focusing ahead on the road.

“You walked out into the morning light, covered in the blood of your victims, accepted your wages, and simply returned home to everyday life?”

“I did,” said Konan.

“How?” asked Scorpion.

“I’m a demure, nonthreatening woman,” said Konan. “No one suspects me. And truly, in disposing of such undesirable, unpleasant targets, I am indeed an angel. But of death.”

Scorpion still seemed perplexed. “But how did you manage to go through with such a thing?”

“Enough questions about me,” decided Konan. She had her reasons, but perhaps Scorpion wouldn’t understand. “Perhaps we ought to talk a little bit more about you.”

“I am of no interest,” Scorpion folded his arms.

“Well, you interest me,” retorted Konan. “How long have you been a spy?”

“When haven’t I been a spy is the true question,” said Scorpion, gazing ahead at the road.

Konan noticed a few jeeps full of soldiers rode ahead of them. She signalled right, and overtook them, her Morris Riley lighter and nippier, gaining speed. She still remembered her pride in purchasing her motorcar. She had longed for one since seeing them available for purchase on the commercial market, but the Great Depression had scuppered her ambitions for many years.

Until her assassinations began to pay off. Once she had settled her and Yahiko’s debts, and began to refill their home with comforts, Konan treated herself to the turquoise motorcar of her dreams. Taking control of such an engine filled her with delight, and when she could fly down the road, it brought a sense of joy and freedom that was to be found little elsewhere.

Konan signalled left, and moved back in front of the jeeps.

“I always liked listening to people talk,” admitted Scorpion. “At school, I would listen in on conversations. Knowledge is wealth, I have always thought. But I’m not just a spy. I’m an artist.”

“The little angel you made for me,” said Konan.

“That’s right,” said Scorpion.

“I placed her on my dressing table. I can see her while I dress myself in the mornings.”

“I kept the scorpion,” admitted Scorpion. “He sits on my nightstand, and watches over me while I sleep.”

“If I’m an angel, then how did you become scorpion?” asked Konan.

“There’s an old fable,” began Scorpion. “Where a frog and a scorpion wanted to cross a river. When the frog refused to carry the scorpion because the scorpion would sting him, the scorpion pointed out that if he did, they would both drown. So the frog carried the scorpion across the river, and midway through the river, the scorpion stung the frog. As the frog died, he asked the scorpion why he stung him. And the scorpion simply replied that it was within his nature to do so.”

“And its within your nature to spy?” asked Konan.

“I believe it is,” said Scorpion. “As much as it is yours to be the angel of death.”

“Do you miss spying?” asked Konan.

“I do,” replied Scorpion. “Do you miss killing?”

“Yes.”

They were quiet for a while, reflecting on the confessions they had uttered to one another. Konan knew she ought to feel guilty for missing killing, yet she could not. And if she did not feel guilty, then she wondered why she simply didn’t want to return to a profession she was otherwise good at. They needed killers for the war, after all.

Eventually, she brushed it aside. All things happened for a reason, or so some people said. Her amber eyes watched the road ahead, hands resting on the steering wheel. Beside her, Scorpion shifted, settling into the car to feel more comfortable. One leg stiffly propped itself against the footrest, while the other fidgeted. Konan did not look too closely or for too long, as her attention focused more on the road ahead, and dismissed it from her thoughts.

“Does your family know what you do?”

“There are none left,” replied Konan. “Do yours?”

“There is just my grandmother,” said Scorpion. “And she has no clue.”

“Do you miss your parents?” asked Konan.

Scorpion swallowed. “Everyday. Do you…miss yours?”

“I barely remember them,” replied Konan.

“My father…” Scorpion trailed off, and then his hand went to his wrist, where he wore a gold watch. He gently rubbed it. “My father gave me this watch. I wore it all throughout my childhood and I even wear it now. I taught myself clockwork so that it would never break.”

Konan briefly took her eyes from the road, and glanced to the side at the golden watch. It looked as though Scorpion was wearing it on the tightest ring, and even then, he must have adapted it. Before she began her assassinations, it was the type of thing she could only dream of buying for Yahiko.

“It’s beautiful. Is it a classic?”

“It is,” said Scorpion. “Did your mother ever give you anything?”

“Just a talent for folding paper.”

“My mother gave me her jewellery,” said Scorpion. “Including a pearl necklace. That was my favourite. I just to run my fingers along the pearls. My grandmother always used to say that I should give it to the right woman when she came along.”

“And has she?”

Scorpion licked his lips. “Not yet.”

Konan reached the turning, and slowed the car, putting it into a lower gear to cope with the change in terrain, before driving out into the country. The car bounced along the uneven road, but soon, she and Scorpion found themselves outside of the secretive Bletchley Park. At the checkpoint at the gates, Konan stopped the car, and unwound the window. She and Scorpion flashed their identification papers, before being waved through.

Konan parked the car, and Scorpion reached for his cane. Konan watched him awkwardly climbed out of car, leaning heavily on the stick. She turned to the boot of her car, fetched the briefcase she had stored with the documents, and then gestured for Scorpion to follow her.

They held out their papers yet again at the reception desk. They were guided in, led to a board room, where Konan stood before the head of the operations going on the park. She felt Scorpion’s eyes on her, and laid the briefcase on the table, unclipping the locks, and holding out the papers she had transported.

Konan decided to make a quick job of it to avoid any delay in investigation. She began by updating them on the goings on in London and what her team were working on, before introducing Scorpion.

In return, they began to debrief her, before announcing a curious finding from the Dunkirk evacuations.

Konan raised a thin eyebrow. “Explain.”

* * *

“Who is he?” demanded Konan coldly, as she and Scorpion regarded the silver-haired man in the cell.

“He says his name is Hidan,” said the guard. “We picked him up after Dunkirk. We think he’s Polish, and that he escaped.”

“Why is he here?” asked Konan.

The guard pulled aside the door, and Hidan glanced up, revealing hostile magenta eyes.

“Shoot him,” demanded the guard.

“Why?” demanded Konan.

“Just try it,” instructed the guard.

“This is an unauthorised killing,” retorted Konan, patting her purse where her gun was tucked away. “I won’t.”

The guard pulled out his own rifle and aimed a bullet at Hidan. The bullet punctured the flesh on Hidan’s lower stomach. Hidan yelped with pain, and then cursed loudly in Polish, before digging two digits into the wound, and yanking out the bullet. He flung it angrily back at the guard, before calling him every name under the sun in Polish.

The guard slammed the cell shut again.

“Why isn’t he dead?” demanded Konan.

“That’s the clue!” said the guard. “He just won’t die. There’s talk that he’s some kind of super-soldier, that he was experimented on. If we could take him apart, find out what it was, think of how that could shorten the war-”

“I don’t believe in such things,” scolded Konan. “He has a high pain tolerance. Fetch him a medic before he bleeds to death.”

“He won’t bleed to death,” said the guard. “He’ll be fine in five minutes.”

Konan turned on her heel and strode out, letting Scorpion follow her out of the hut, and back out into the sun. She frowned, even as the rays beat down on her. That evening, they gave her the usual room that they offered her whenever she stayed over. It was a single bed, but it was far away from London, far away from the bombs. Konan laid on her back, and placed her arms under her head, her mind awash with thoughts. Scorpion had been shown to rooms in the men’s quarters, and Konan waited for them to bring her a dinner.

There was a rap at the door.

“Enter,” called Konan.

The door swung open to reveal Scorpion, leaning on his cane.

“I want to go out to dinner,” he announced.

Konan sat up immediately. “Goodness heavens, Scorpion. How did you get into the women’s quarters?”

“I’m a spy, remember,” replied Scorpion, limping in and closing the door behind him. “I watched until all the guards left, and then the other women left. It seems they like to go dancing in the evenings, rather than eat the rationed canteen slop. I can’t say I care to chance it on what they’ll serve us. And so I’d like to go out to dinner.”

“Is this an invitation?” asked Konan.

“What else?” said Scorpion. “But I hope you won’t mind driving.”

“I’ll take us to the nearest town,” agreed Konan.

She collected her handbag, and slipped her heels back on. As they left her room, Konan noticed that Scorpion had begun to limp this late in the evening. She wanted to offer assistance but without insulting or patronizing him, and yet wondered what to suggest.

It was common courtesy for gentlemen and ladies to walk arm-in-arm whilst going out. Konan held out her arm. Scorpion glanced at her slender limb for half a second too long, and then blinked. Somewhat cautiously, he slid his arm through hers. Konan patted his forearm, and they made their way back out into the evening.

In the turquoise Morris Riley, Konan switched on her dipped headlights. She would have preferred to use full beam lights to drive in the dark, but since the blackout, was only allowed to use a slither of light to see further ahead. At the checkpoint, Konan and Scorpion showed their papers once again, and Konan began the drive back along the country lane, winding through the trees. Her eyes narrowed, remembering a newspaper article about how the blackout had caused more road accidents.

Reaching the village, Konan parked in a side road, and then climbed out. She locked the car, and she and Scorpion began to walk arm-in-arm along the cobbles. No street lamps shone to guide the way; all the windows of restaurants were boarded up.

“This looks promising,” stated Scorpion, stopping outside a door.

Konan’s ears pricked, hearing the overture of jazz music. “I believe it does.”

Scorpion held open the door for her, and they entered a small restaurant that was half-full. Konan knew that in wartime, only those with extra money above their rations could afford to dine out, and were resented by many of the lower working class families, although there were British Restaurants where those who had been bombed out could dine using their rations.

The waitress took their coats, and then seated them in a private booth. She gave them each a look, realising that they were unfamiliar, and male and female. She noticed the absence of a wedding ring on Scorpion’s left fourth finger, but the presence of one on Konan’s.

 _Let her think what she wants,_ Konan thought to herself.

She and Scorpion both studied the menu, and then each other. There was a lot of information to gather on a person based on their food choices. Konan watched Scorpion’s eye flicker down the page, and then the next. Nothing truly seemed to catch his eye, and instead his eyes flickered up to look at her. Konan stared back down at her menu, immediately liking the look of some grilled fish and a selection of vegetables.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked.

“Nothing alcoholic if I’m driving,” replied Konan. “But you can have what you like.”

“I won’t drink if you can’t,” said Scorpion. “I’ll stick with water.”

They ordered their water and decided to skip a starter, gazing back over the table at one another. Scorpion’s eyes were an interesting mix of brown and grey, and usually half-closed, giving him a cynical expression that showed he was half-done with the world.

“Well, this is definitely better than the canteen food,” admitted Konan, once her plate was laid before her.

“It reminds me too much of when I was at boarding school,” said Scorpion.

“Boarding school?” asked Konan.

“My grandmother sent me when I was eleven,” explained Scorpion. “To learn my Latin, my Classics, and how to be a fine young man.”

“And are you?” asked Konan.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” said Scorpion, as their plates were laid before them. He glanced down, and then back up at Konan. “This is better than boiled cabbage.”

“Not even I can make boiled cabbage appetizing,” agreed Konan, picking up her fork, and spearing a piece of the fish. They ate quietly, watching each other silently.

Konan decided she wanted to know precisely what kind of man Scorpion was, and what he wanted from her with this invitation to dinner. He must want something. No man would go out of his way and spend money like this during the war for no reason. Beneath the table, she allowed her heeled foot to creep forwards, and she lightly ran the toe of her shoe against his ankle.

Scorpion did not move.

Konan changed tactic, and ran the edge of her foot along his calf.

And yet Scorpion did not move, nor bat an eyelid at her antics. If anything, he behaved as if nothing were occurring.

A true professional.

“Sir? Ma’am?” asked the waitress, once their plates were empty. “Would you care for dessert? Or perhaps some coffee?”

“We’ll take the coffee,” said Konan.

They sat opposite one another, their gaze meeting as they sipped at their coffee. The music had quietened and the lights had dimmed, and many of the patrons were paying for their meals and slipping back out into the darkness.

“I am glad you invited me out this evening, Scorpion. I wanted to talk to you about the man we met today,” admitted Konan.

“Hidan, you mean?” asked Scorpion.

“That’s the one,” replied Konan. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

Scorpion’s eyes narrowed.

“The torture they’re subjecting him to is inhumane,” said Konan bluntly. “I won’t stand for it. Tonight, I want to break him out, and tomorrow, take him back to London with us.”

“Are you nuts?” asked Scorpion.

“Perhaps,” said Konan.

“We could lose our jobs and be convicted of treason,” retorted Scorpion.

“Or we could be exposing an unacceptable practise,” said Konan.

“Why should I risk my life for a stranger?” asked Scorpion.

“Then maybe I’ll break him out alone,” said Konan.

“You can’t do that.”

“I murdered an entire club in one night by myself. Watch me,” Konan threatened lightly.

Scorpion sighed heavily, but then the waitress laid down their bill before them as he laid down his empty cup of coffee. “I’ll get this.”

“We’ll go halves,” said Konan.

“No, let me,” said Scorpion.

“I want to go halves,” said Konan firmly.

“A gentleman never lets a lady pay.”

“A lady doesn’t need a gentleman to pay for her.”

“You drove us here,” said Scorpion. “I otherwise would have bought a taxi. And so I’ll pay.”

Konan was forced to concede, as she hated to admit that he was right. She tucked her purse away in her handbag, and watched as Scorpion counted out the money for their meal. The waitress brought them their coats, and Scorpion helped her into hers. This time, he offered his arm to her, and they made their way back to the car.

Back in the front seat, Konan drove into the night, formulating her plan.

* * *

The following morning, Konan drove out of Bletchley Park. She waved her ID papers, and Scorpion waved his. The guards gestured them through and on their way. Konan nodded curtly, and pressed her foot on the accelerator.

“Where will we take him?” asked Scorpion, once the gates faded away behind them.

“I know a smuggler,” said Konan confidently.

“Kakuzu?” frowned Scorpion. “He smuggles food.”

“Because he knows he can make a profit. He could smuggle a person for the right amount,” said Konan, her eyes fixated on the road ahead.

There was a muffled shout from the back of the car. “Oi, who the fuck is Kakuzu!”

“Silence, Hidan,” instructed Konan, her eyes fixed on the winding road. “You’ll find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Angel and Scorpion are warming up to each other?


	4. Courting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brush with death in Scorpion's life pushes him to decide to court Angel properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no update! But as a few of my other projects are coming to an end, I can start coming back to a few other of my wips! And I couldn't say no to the 1940s and sasokona, could I?
> 
> I love writing this chapter so much, and I had so much detail that I had to spend a good amount of time editing and cutting it down! It's still super long, but its got everything it needs, I think <3

Several days after their trip to Bletchley Park and risky rescue of Hidan, Sasori watched as afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window behind Angel, illuminating the soft curls of her blue hair. Each morning as she arrived at work, her curls were pristine, yet by evening time when they bade farewell to one another, they had always fallen loose to her shoulders.

“Scorpion,” called Angel, a slight waver at the back of her throat. “Do you have any plans for tomorrow evening?”

“No, Angel. Do you?”

“I don’t,” admitted Angel.

Sasori wondered what her hair would feel like, if the curls would bounce between his fingers, or fall straight down to her shoulders. He imagined how he would draw her, if he would draw her in the morning when they were bouncy, or in the evening, once they had drooped. Either way, he imagined the pencil strokes across the paper, twisting the nib of the pencil with each curl.

Angel cleared her throat. “There’s a dance at one of the halls near my house tomorrow evening. I’d like to go, but I don’t have a partner.”

“That’s unfortunate,” stated Sasori.

“Yes, it is. I haven’t been out to a dance in years. Not since my husband…” Angel trailed off.

Sasori hesitated, listening intently. So, Angel had a husband? He had seen the wedding ring…but _husband_ was in the past tense. Sasori stored away that piece of useful information.

“I know I could go by myself and wait to be asked to dance, but I can’t say I care to chance on who would be my partner,” explained Angel.

“That would be unpleasant,” stated Sasori.

“So, I was wondering, Scorpion, if you’d like to accompany me.”

Sasori felt his mouth go dry, and his throat go numb. Colour began to work its way up his cheeks, painting them red, like spilled paint whenever he worked on one of his puppets.

Dancing was a social nicety when infiltrating gatherings of important contacts and targets. Sasori stuck to the slower dances, where he could lean close to his partner and let them whisper their secrets in his ear.

But now he had his new leg, that Sasori still hadn’t managed to curate to perfection, and he was still unsteady. He had mastered walking and running, but dancing would be an entirely new experience. All those jumps, hops, twirls, spins…not to mention having to support the body weight of not just himself, but another partner.

“I…don’t think that’s a good idea,” finished Sasori.

Angel’s amber eyes downcast back to her work. “No. I suppose not.”

Sasori felt a sting of disappointment with himself, but there was little he could do.

“I suppose we ought to keep our acquaintance to the workplace,” said Angel, standing up, and reaching for her coat.

“Angel, it’s not that,” Sasori said, before he could even stop himself. She looked at him quizzically with her thin brows, collecting her handbag. “Please. Stay safe in the blackout.”

Her expression softened. “You too, Scorpion.”

Sasori waited until she had left before he collected his coat, hat and walking stick. He made his way out onto the street, avoiding the route back to the Underground Station that he knew Angel would take. The queue of people waiting to sleep in the Underground teemed out and up the steps, and Sasori imagined Angel weaving her way around them. At the thought of Angel, Sasori chided himself. He should have said yes. He was right to say no. He was silly to keep dwelling on it.

He slammed the door behind him of his apartment building, then began the stairs up to his room. Midway through the climb, his leg began to twinge. Sasori gritted his teeth, and carried on. As soon as he was safely inside his rooms, he slumped in an armchair, and flung his walking stick down.

Almost immediately, the air raid siren sounded.

Sasori stormed to the window, wrenched it open, and tilted his head to look up at the sky.

“DON’T YOU EVER SLEEP?” he roared with fury at the impending planes.

Sasori grabbed his bag, pulled his coat back on, grabbed his walking stick, then pounded back down the stairs, and into the communal air raid shelter at the end of his street. One of his neighbours’ babies was crying loudly, and Sasori winced. He slumped down in his usual corner away from everybody else, and pulled out his sketchbook and pencils.

His thoughts turned back to Angel, and he began to sketch her from his memories. First came the proportions of her lovely face, before he pencilled her nose and eyes, then her thin brows, bringing her to life upon the page. Her hair swept across her face in the loosening pin curls that he’d last seen her wear when she’d bade him goodbye.

Sasori flicked detail into her eyelashes, then his pencil swooped down, and started to draw her lips. He shaded in all the detail, pursing his lips with concentration. Sasori let his pencil travel further down the page as he sketched her slender neck, then her collar bones, as they lay beneath the open collar of her button-down dress.

The people in the shelter faded away, and the pain in his leg ceased, as he began the intricate process of drawing each of the flowers on her dress. Sasori inhaled deeply, imagining her floral scent, but instead he smelt granite and burning.

A stream of dust piled on top of Sasori’s open sketchbook. He frowned, then glanced up. The ceiling was shaking, and around him, the room had gone silent.

Sasori needed no warning. He scrambled upright, lurching forwards down the middle section of the shelter. There was an explosion, and Sasori felt himself blasted forwards towards the door. He slumped, rolling onto his side, as the wall where he had been sitting caved in. Hordes of broken bodies lay crumped between the wreckage.

_That could have been me._

Sasori shook violently, his hand clutched his sketchbook closely to his heart. He ran up the stairs, out of the shelter, ignoring the shouts of the air raid warden, and stood in the middle of the street, his chest heaving. The search beams lit up the sky, shrapnel sprayed and exploded across the street as buildings collapsed around him. He watched the fire rage above the shelter and the other surviving people crawl out, each of them dishevelled. Sasori turned frantically to look back at his building a few houses away.

It remained standing.

Sasori longed for nothing more than to run back to his rooms, crawl under his covers and rock back and forth. Instead he found a convenient pile of rubble to vomit discreetly behind. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing with disgust.

The air raid warden directed him and the other survivors down to the nearest tube station, and Sasori stumbled down, his prosthetic buckling against his stump with each step. The other people inside the tube station looked at him warily, and Sasori figured that he must look a mess. His hair felt gritty with soot, he could still smell the vomit, even as he frantically dabbed at his mouth with a grimy handkerchief, praying it hadn’t clung to his hair.

People clamoured around him, offering him assistance, asking him questions. Sasori pushed them away, wanting nothing more than to be alone right now. This was nothing that a hot bath wouldn’t fix, but people kept coming up to him, thinking that their presence was a comfort, that it was a good display of ‘bulldog spirit,’ when it was anything but.

Sasori finally pushed them aside, and slumped down in a free spot. He held his sketchbook to his chest and wrapped his coat around himself, letting off a low moan.

_Pathetic._

Chatter filled the air. Some people were playing music. Sasori felt his ears pop, the music a bizarre contrast to the ringing from the explosion. He rubbed his ears, leaning his head against the wall. The air attack wouldn’t ease off until the morning, and until then, all Sasori could do was sleep.

As Sasori lay falling asleep, his eyes fell on a poster for a local cinema of a showing of _Rebecca_. It had been a while since he’d gone to the cinema, and he wondered if Angel liked the cinema. He closed his eyes, ignoring the sighs and snores of the people around him. The air was heavy with the stench of sweat, singed fabric and soot. Sasori breathed heavily and deeply, trying to focus on other thoughts, happier thoughts. His days in Paris…amongst the culture…the art…

Sleep came to him in a haze. The next thing he knew, the all clear siren screamed, and the people were making their way back up the steps. Sasori crawled upright, his limbs seizing and aching, then began to follow them out, as if he wasn’t covered in soot, debris, and vomit.

He limped back home in the dawn, the wreckage appearing even more dark and imposing in the dawn, casting shadows that drowned out Sasori’s form.

Sasori hauled his weary body up the steps to his rooms, trying hard not to look out the window at the destroyed shelter he had crawled from. Once safely inside his apartment, he slumped back in the chair, and groaned softly to himself. He pulled off his prosthetic, tossing it at the bed. He ran his hands through his hair, unsettling more granite.

He needed a bath. Sasori hopped upright, pulled out his tub from beneath his bed, and disregarding the bath water rationing, filled the tub with scorching hot water, exactly the way he liked it. He peeled off his sooty, vomit-streaked clothes, and flung them straight in the bin. He sank into the tub, submerging his face, feeling the dirt seep from his hair.

When he re-emerged, he lay with his head to the side, watching the sun come up. His remaining leg dangled over the edge, while he let his stump soak in the heat, soothing away the aches and cramps from the excessive movement all night. Sasori lightly and slowly ran his hands across his body, sluicing away the dirt that had somehow worked through his clothes.

He worked soap into a lather, scratching his fingertips down into the roots of his hair. The white lather foamed grey, and trailed down his back. Sasori scrubbed away the memory of his neighbours’ bodies crumpling beneath the bricks and mortar, arising from the water. He hobbled out the tub, wrapping himself within a towel, feeling as though the layer of the nights previous emotions had been mercifully washed away.

Sasori boiled the kettle, like he would any morning, and made himself a cup of tea, deciding there was no point in attempting sleep. He dressed himself in his trousers, his shirt, his waistcoat, leaving his prosthetic off to give his stump a respite.

Sasori combed his hair, then sat at his table sipping tea and nibbling biscuits. The sun rose in the sky, and it was time to go to work. He strapped on his prosthetic with a wince, picked up his walking stick, then made his way to the office.

At work the atmosphere was sublimely normal. Sasori wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for the normality or find it distasteful. He decided to go with the former.

Angel glanced up from the desk she stood over. “Scorpion.”

“Angel,” Sasori replied.

“There was a bomb in your area last night,” stated Angel. She gave him a curious glance. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. My home is fine,” replied Sasori.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take today off?”

“No,” Sasori shook his head. “No. I want to work.”

He sat down at the desk she had assigned him, and let his eyes loose themselves to the codes. Slowly, the memory of his crumpled, twisted neighbours’ bodies faded from his mind, and all he saw were letters and numbers in intricate patterns, and it became a simple matter of untangling them to lay bare their secrets. Angel moved around the room, murmuring words of encouragement and support to their team. Sasori watched her, before he abruptly stood up.

He walked out the room, and then settled down on a chair in a little side room.

Angel’s heels clacked on the lanoline, and then she stood before him, staring down. “Are you sure you’re all right, Scorpion?”

“I have something to show you,” announced Sasori.

“Oh?” asked Angel.

Sasori pulled up his trouser leg, to reveal the buckles holding his prosthetic to the remainder of his leg. His voice came out of its own accord, clipped and precise. “I was injured during a mission and developed an infection. My leg had to be removed. They gave me this joke of a prosthetic and since then I have been working on improvements. But it’s not complete. It’s not perfect. I can walk and run…but I can’t dance.”

Angel licked her lips. “I see.”

Sasori sighed sadly. “I would have danced with you if I could.”

Angel knelt before him, surprising Sasori. She laid her hand on the edge of the prosthetic, touching the buckles. “This is very fine craftsmanship.”

“It is?” asked Sasori.

“This is…very advanced,” admitted Angel, her fingers tracing over the buckles. “Better than any other prosthetic technology I’ve seen. If Nagato could see this…”

“You think its…artistic?” asked Sasori.

“Yes.”

Sasori leant forwards, and gently touched one of the pin curls that bounced beside her face. Angel inclined her head towards his fingers, her amber eyes closing. Sasori cupped his palm, and then found himself cradling her powdered cheek.

“I was so worried you’d been hurt last night,” confessed Angel, re-opening her eyes and gazing up at him. Her deadened eyes were suddenly shiny with the beginnings of emotion.

“I’m fine,” said Sasori, even as her display of emotion stung him. “I’m always fine.”

“Maybe not a dance then…” said Angel. “Maybe you’d prefer to…”

“Go to the cinema?” suggested Sasori.

She continued to gaze at him with those amber eyes. “You like the cinema?”

“I love the cinema. I used to love the theatre too, when they still showed plays,” replied Sasori, running his thumb lightly along her cheekbone. “I was thinking Saturday afternoon, during the daylight, when it’s not blackout. Would you like that?”

“I would,” replied Angel. She tilted her head, and then gazed at him curiously. “If we’re going to meet outside of work, then surely I can’t call you Scorpion. You must have a real name.”

“I’m certain that it’s meant to be classified.”

Angel smiled slyly at him. “I’m certain that _Classified_ isn’t a name either.”

“Very well, as you please. But you must tell me your name too, since I doubt yours is really Angel.”

“Gladly. We’ll say them together.”

“Sasori.”

“Konan.” 

* * *

 

Sasori stopped going to the communal air raid shelter, and instead started going straight to the Underground Stations, taking with him a few pillows and a blanket, pencils and his sketchbook to keep himself entertained. He wished he could have spent the time working on his leg, but knew that would have attracted unwanted negative attention and questions.

On Saturday morning, Sasori washed, dressed, then combed his red hair. He wrapped his coat around himself, and picked up his walking stick. He had already adjusted his prosthetic, strapped it on neatly, and laid one of his fancier pair of shoes on the feet.

Sasori leisurely strolled down the street, ignoring the rubble of the communal shelter, and down into the Underground Station. He jumped on the tube that Angel caught, being carried out to the suburbs of London.

Sasori leant back, and then pulled out his sketchbook, where his most recent sketch had been the memory of how his street had looked before the bombing. That was what he hated most about this war. The destruction of every beautiful, historical, architectural piece of art in cities across Europe. These buildings were meant to eternal monuments of beauty, concealing many different significant moments throughout history.

The tube pulled in, and Sasori climbed up, leaning on his walking stick in the unfamiliar territory. He glanced this way and that, realising that this was what Angel must see every day. He imagined her now, weaving through the crowds of people, wrapping in her trench coat, loosening pin curls trailing down over her collar, handbag neatly tucked under one arm.

Sasori emerged into a residential street, and then glanced up.

There was a pair of Angel’s heels, her stockinged calves, the hem of a patterned button-down dress, the flare of her navy coat, a handbag, and then red lips, rouged cheeks, and her amber eyes behind a layer of mascara.

“You made it,” she greeted.

“I wasn’t bombed under, thank goodness,” said Sasori.

“I’m glad to see you,” admitted Angel.

“As am I,” replied Sasori.

Angel, or Konan, as Sasori knew he ought to call her now that they were outside the workplace, stood still as he walked over to stand by her side. Sasori wondered what she was waiting for, why they didn’t just start walking once they had greeted each other.

Her head was tilted slightly to one side, and she looked at him expectantly.

 _She wants me to kiss her,_ realised Sasori. But then it made sense, as most people greeted one another with a kiss upon each cheek. He recalled his years in Paris, where he couldn’t escape the kissing, regardless of his feeling towards the person involved.

Sasori knew that Konan had a pleasant scent to her, as he sometimes caught a whiff of her perfume as she brushed past him, or as they bent over a task together. He knew that her personal hygiene was also adequate, as he had never noticed dirt beneath her nails, nor any shadows behind the back of her neck and ears. Her hair was always freshly styled, and her clothes were always new each day. Kissing Konan would not be unpleasant, and if anything, it might be _very_ pleasant.

Sasori leant up, and laid his lips upon one rouged cheek. He felt the soft powder against his lips, inhaled the delicate talcum scent, and felt her hair tickle his cheek. At the same time, he felt the waxy sheen of her lips press against his cheek, and her lips formed an elegant bow when puckered.

He laid the first kiss, then turned his head to lay the second, whilst she did the same.

When they broke apart, Sasori felt a pleasant tingle in his lips and the place on his cheeks where Konan laid her lips on him. The memory of her lips and cheeks lingered where they had contacted, and Sasori almost wished it had lasted a moment longer.

“Shall we?” asked Sasori, offering her his free arm. He recalled seeing other people offer their dates their arms whenever they strolled along.

Konan accepted it, threading a slim arm into the crook of his elbow. They began to walk down the street together, matching their footsteps to the same rhythm.

“How has your weekend been so far?” asked Sasori.

“This morning I went to the market to pick up my weekly rations, and washed my dresses for the week. I left them out to dry in the sunshine, but that’s nothing exciting, I’m afraid,” replied Konan. “Yourself?”

“Nothing exciting either, I’m afraid,” admitted Sasori, with a wry smile. “I suppose for all the secrecy at work, we assume we must all have such fascinating inner lives.”

“On that, I am rather disappointing. Unless you would like to hear about the antics of my chickens this morning?”

“You have chickens?”

“Yes, for their eggs. I can trade them for extra rations.”

“How many do you have?” asked Sasori.

“Four girls,” replied Konan.

“Did you name them?”

“I may have nicknamed them.”

“You may have nicknamed them?” asked Sasori.

Konan gave him a shy smile. Sasori felt his affectations in his heart rise, one that was certainly unexpected. He quickly lowered his head, and shook it from his thoughts.

“What would you like to see today?” asked Sasori, as Konan guided him along the roads to her local cinema.

“I was hoping to see _Rebecca_ ,” said Konan, when they drew closer to the door of foyer. Various posters stuck up outside blared at them, and they peered at each of them.

“As was I,” replied Sasori. They approached the doors, and Sasori realised that it would be polite for him to release him from her hold and open the doors for her. He almost didn’t want to let go of her, finding that having someone walk beside him whilst he leant on his walking stick was surprisingly comfortable.

But reluctantly, he released Konan, and then held open the door for her.

“Thank you,” said Konan. “But really, you shouldn’t go to this trouble.”

Her amber eyes darted to his leg, and Sasori was struck by her consideration. Usually he would have been furious, but with Konan, he felt her concern came from…compassion, not patronisation.

“This is only for you,” responded Sasori.

“Should I feel flattered?”

“If you wish.”

Konan ushered into the foyer, and Sasori followed after. He re-linked his arm with hers, and they wandered to the counter.

Sasori immediately stuck his hand in his pocket for his wallet, intending to pay for both of them. He knew very well that whilst Konan was his team leader, and performed the same job as he did, that she was probably only paid two thirds of what he was.

“Put that away, I’ll buy my own ticket,” scolded Konan, reaching in her handbag for her purse.

“I invited you. I’ll pay for them,” frowned Sasori.

“No, I wanted to invite you,” dismissed Konan. “I can buy my own.”

“Stop that,” Sasori pushed her purse away. “Let me treat you.”

Konan reluctantly put her purse in her bag, and Sasori opened his wallet to pay for their tickets. He felt Konan release his arm, and then walk away. As he handed over the money, he felt a sudden panic, that he had insulted her and she had left.

Sasori turned back around with the tickets, and realised that Konan had gone to the little booth selling sweets.

“Since you would not let me pay, I thought I would buy us some sweets,” she explained, holding two packets.

Sasori swallowed. “Those are sweets. Those are _expensive_.”

“And?” asked Konan. She placed them both inside her handbag, then took his hand. “Come on, or we’ll miss the film.”

Sasori felt lightning shoot through his hand as Konan guided him along. He wondered how she could be so open and giving with her touch. It didn’t even startle or irritate him, and instead Sasori felt a warm tingling throughout his body, filling him up and up until he could hardly take it anymore.

They slipped into the theatre, filled with the steady buzz of people talking. For once, Sasori was not irritated by their voices, and instead his attention focused on Konan.

“Where did you book our seats?” she asked.

Sasori pulled out the tickets. “I chose the back row. I thought it might be quiet?”

Konan gave him an amused look.

“What’s so funny?” asked Sasori.

“You’ll find out,” replied Konan. They hunted through the dark to their seats, where Sasori spotted a series of likeminded young men and women sitting together in the seats. The men mainly wore service uniforms, and the women wore floral button-down dresses. He and Konan sat down between two couples, and Konan pulled out one of the packets of sweets.

“Already?” he asked.

“Why not? I haven’t had sweets in a while,” Konan popped a pink candied sweet between her lip, and then sucked, her mouth moved into the bow that she had kissed him with.

Sasori accepted the sweet she had offered him, and sat mulling it over in his mouth. The lights darkened, and the red velvet curtains rolled back. Projector light filled the room, and silence fell upon the crowd. Sasori settled back comfortably in his seat, his attention focused solely on the screen. He accepted the second sweet that Konan offered him, and continued to focus on the trailers that blared. He didn’t notice how Konan continued to watch him with an amused look, even in the darkness, until the film began.

Sasori had been admiring the costume design skills, the portrayals from the actors, as well as the adaption of the story from the book, when he heard a loud wet smacking sound.

He dismissed it at first, and then he heard another loud smack.

Sasori glanced at Konan, but she was staring again at the screen, her hands in her lap.

He stared at the couple beside him, but they were locked in embrace, paying zero attention to the film.

He looked back at Konan, at the film, then at the couple.

The couple continued to kiss, and Sasori realised the man had his hand on his female companion’s hip and was squeezing eagerly.

“Konan!” he hissed.

“Yes, Sasori?” asked Konan.

“They’re kissing!” he scolded.

“Of course they are,” replied Konan. “This is the back row.”

“The back row? I thought it would be quiet!” Sasori almost exploded.

“You fool!” laughed Konan quietly. “The back row is where courting couples come and kiss…my husband and I would always sneak back here for a kiss. I thought you’d know this…aren’t you meant to be a spy?”

“I don’t waste my time spying on courting couples,” growled Sasori, immensely disliking being referred to as a fool.

Konan laughed again, hiding her sniggers behind her hand.

“It’s not funny,” Sasori pouted.

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” Konan tentatively teased.

Sasori recalled the lovely feel of her lips on his cheek earlier and wondered what a kiss on the lips from her would feel like. But then he recalled his stubborn conviction to watch the film in its entirety, and to appreciate the artistic endeavours that had gone into creating the film.

Sasori lightly tapped Konan’s shoulder. “Could I have another sweet?”

Konan reached in the packet, and then held one out to him. Sasori accepted it, and then wondered why she looked disappointed. To his right, the courting couple had moved their make out session up a notch, and the girl had lain her leg over her partner’s thigh, pressing her whole torso against his. Sasori grimaced, as the slurping smacking sounds grew louder.

“This is awful,” he complained to Konan.

“The film?” she asked.

“No,” Sasori shook his head. “This public…fornicating.”

“I think the film is fascinating,” said Konan, leaning across to murmur in his ear. “I remember the book, and how unnerving I found it when I read it. They’ve brought it to life particularly well.”

“I quite agree on that,” said Sasori, feeling her blue pin curls brush against his cheek. He leant further closer to whisper more. “What was your favourite scene from the book, may I ask?”

“It certainly has to be the scene where we find out what really happened to Rebecca, that she provoked Mr de Winter to kill her when she realised that she was dying and didn’t want a lingering death,” replied Konan. “That she was afraid of no one or nothing…but a slow painful death. And yours?”

“Oh, definitely when she goes into Rebecca’s rooms and Mrs Danvers comes and starts whispering as she touches all of Rebecca’s belongings. That they remained just as they had been before she provoked de Winters…so enthralling,” Sasori mused, staring back at the cinema screen.

“Have you read anymore works by du Maurier?” asked Konan.

“A few,” admitted Sasori. “But I haven’t read all of them yet. I’d like to. Do you have any recommendations?”

“I can bring a few into work, if you would like,” offered Konan. “But it might be easier to show you my book collection, and let you choose what you would like.”

Sasori gave a subtle smirk. “Are you inviting me back to your home so soon?”

“Be careful,” Konan warned playfully. She held out another sweet, and Sasori accepted it, popping it in his mouth casually.

As the film ended, they climbed up, and made their way outside. The sun had lowered in the sky, and Sasori offered Konan his arm again.

“Shall I walk you home?” he asked.

“No, it’s all right,” replied Konan. “I’d much rather you made it home on the tube safely tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Sasori, thinking of his leg. He realised that it was the first time that he had thought about it in hours. Today, he had been able to lose himself in the company of a woman like any other man. The thought surprised him, and he needed some time to think on it.

But until then, he would enjoy the last few moments of their date together.

They walked to the tube station, and then they released each other, standing so that they faced one another.

“Thank you for coming,” said Konan.

“Thank _you_ for coming,” corrected Sasori.

“We should meet outside of work more often,” suggested Konan.

Sasori couldn’t hide the smile that lit up his features, and didn’t even hate himself for it. “I would like that.”

“And so would I,” confessed Konan.

“Next time, I’ll make certain to book the seats in the middle,” replied Sasori.

“And I won’t get my hopes up for a kiss.”

“Stop that,” scolded Sasori. He laid his hands on her waist, closing the distance between them, and then leant upwards towards her, pouting his lips into a bow to imitate hers.

Konan laid her hands on his arms, and Sasori found that her touch tingled through his trench coat. She leant down, so that they met in the middle halfway. His lips lightly brushed against hers, and when Sasori tasted them, they tasted of the sugared sweets they’d been eating. Her lips felt soft, with just a thin waxy layer from her lipstick that had worn away. A bizarre tingling sensation began in Sasori’s lips, that tremored throughout his body, making his heart beat rapidly, his stomach flutter with butterflies, and his remaining toes curl inside his brogues.

The overwhelming sensations of feelings made Sasori want to pull away and run away to regather his thoughts and composure, but his curiosity on the matter kept him rooted to one spot. Konan lightly parted and then closed her lips, guiding his with hers, in small back-and-forth movements. Sasori was even sure he felt her tongue press against his briefly, before she pulled away.

The whole thing was over in seconds, but Sasori felt as though the kiss had taken an eternity. Tiredness sagged through him, and he fought to stay upright.

“I’ll see you on Monday…Sasori,” said Konan, and Sasori realised that he liked the sound of his name on her voice, and that he preferred it to Scorpion. She released him from her embrace. “Travel safely.”

“Goodbye, Konan,” finished Sasori. He turned, descending the stairs into the tube, before glancing up for one last look at her. She blew like a blue flower in the wind above him, and raised her hand in farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think they're falling in love just a bit? ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter of this fic - I've had lots of fun working on it and I hope you liked it as much as I liked writing it!
> 
> I would LOVE to hear your thoughts! Please do feel free to leave me a comment - I love short and long comments, I'm happy to accept constructive critique as long as its polite, and I don't mind if its a rambly incoherent comment either! <3


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